Edward Marston - The Trip to Jerusalem

It was not just Sir Clarence and Mark Scruton who posed a problem. Evidently, someone had entered the tunnel before him and the corpse in the rhododendrons bore ugly witness to the man's sense of purpose. Nicholas had to be more circumspect, especially as the passage ahead of him was in complete darkness. He crept along with the utmost care and caught the faint whiff of burning tallow. The candles in this section of the tunnel had just been extinguished. It put him even more on his guard.

Feeling his way along, he discovered how many spiders and insects had made their homes down there. When he felt something brush against his ankle, he stepped back in horror then heard the telltale patter behind him. It was a large rat. He was grateful that Richard Honeydew was not with him. Straining his eyes against the blackness, he inched his way along, finding the tunnel more and more oppressive. Its walls narrowed and his sense of being imprisoned became more acute. Something else troubled him and he lashed out with an arm. ; 'Who's there?' he called.

There was no answer but he knew he was not alone.

Sounds of a struggle came from up ahead and he heard Sir Clarence yell with rage. It forced him into a run that had him virtually bouncing off the walls as he hared along. Light surrounded a steel door ahead of him. He flung it open to find himself in a tiny chapel. Two men were locked in a desperate struggle.

Sir Clarence Marmion grappled with the old man who had pursued him and tore off his false beard. Mark Scruton tried to shake himself free and use his dagger. Before Nicholas could intercede, the actor seized the advantage. Getting a firm grip on his adversary, he threw him hard against the stone wall. Sir Clarence's head made contact with solid granite and he subsided to the floor with a groan, lapsing at once into unconsciousness. Mark Scruton stood over him then he swung around to confront the intruder. He began to circle Nicholas with his dagger at the ready.

'You have followed me once too often, Nick.'

'I had not thought to see you again.'

'It will be the last time.'

He made a pass with his weapon but the book holder eluded its point with ease. The actor laughed.

'This was not your fight,' he said. 'It had nothing to do with you, Nick. You should have kept out.'

'Villainy must not go unchecked.'

'You know too much for your own good yet not nearly enough to understand the truth.'

'I know that you are Walsingham's man.'

'I was,' conceded the other. 'Until today, I was. It should have ended here at Marmion Hall. I gave them Rickwood. I gave them Pomeroy. This was to be my last employment as a spy. I would have been free to follow my real profession in the theatre.'

'You are no actor, sir,' said Nicholas with contempt.

'I was skilful enough to fool you,' reminded the other. 'What is spying but a form of acting? I was a master of my art.' His eyes narrowed. 'Then you came along and ruined my plans. Because you escaped me at the Three Swans, I had to run away from the company. They will never accept me as a sharer now.'

'Then I have done them a favour.'

Scruton jabbed with the dagger again but Nicholas was too nimble for him. The actor continued to circle his man and look for an opening. Nicholas stayed on the alert and tried to keep him talking.

'You betrayed your fellows,' he accused.

'It was needful.'

'But quite unforgivable.' He hazarded a guess. 'And you murdered Oliver Quilley."

'I had to. He had told me all he could.'

'About what?'

'Marmion Hall. I used him as my eyes. He got in here and saw what I needed to know. When I had persuaded him to part with the information, I closed his eyes for good.' Scruton grinned. 'He was a scurvy painter and will not be missed.'

'You will be arraigned for his killing.'

'No, sir. I have friends in high places.'

Scruton made a sudden move and thrust hard with his dagger but Nicholas grabbed his wrist. They wrestled back against one of the pews and threshed about wildly for the best part of a minute. Nicholas managed to twist the weapon out of the other's hand and it fell to the floor with a clatter. Mark Scruton was enraged. With a fresh burst of energy, he flung the book holder back against the altar rail and got his hands on his throat. Nicholas was slowly being strangled.

So absorbed were they in their fight that they did not observe the figure who slipped in through the steel door nor did they see the gold crucifix being removed from the altar. Nicholas was in distress. A steel band was around his neck and it got tighter by the second. Scruton was a blurred object before his eyes. Making a last supreme effort, he grabbed his opponent by the arms and threw him violently away. Scruton went back a few yards. They were the last steps he would ever take. Before he could move in again, his skull was smashed open by one vicious blow from the crucifix and his brains spattered the white cloth of the altar. Having spent so much time betraying Roman Catholics, he had now been cut down by a symbol of their faith.

Christopher Millfield looked down at the corpse then threw the crucifix away. Banging sounds from above warned that the soldiers would soon find their way into the secret passage. Millfield did not seem perturbed. He flashed a smile at the panting Nicholas.

'You were right to suspect me.'

'Another of Walsingham's men?'

'Yes, Nick, but of a different order from this fool.' He kicked the dead body. 'Scruton had served his purpose as a spy. Such people have no further use. My job is to pay them off and send them on their way.'

'You have a brutal livelihood, sir.'

'It is well-paid and very well protected.'

Nicholas rubbed his throat and looked around at the scene of carnage. Mark Scruton lay dead, Sir Clarence Marmion was in a coma and the chapel had been wrecked by the force of the violence. He finally began to understand the steps which had led to this grim ending. Revulsion against Christopher Millfield stirred in his stomach but he had the grace to offer a grudging compliment.

'I should have listened to you, sir.'

'When?'

'When you told me you were the finer actor.' Millfield was still beaming as soldiers rushed in.

It was a day of departures. Banbury's Men had already slunk away with their tails between their legs. Sir Clarence went off to London under armed guard. With her ruffled feathers now smoothed, Susan Becket returned to her own hostelry. Humphrey and Eleanor Budden went home to a new life in Nottingham. In the company of four liveried servants, Margery Firethorn rode back to Shoreditch to pay some bills and count the days until her husband's return. Mark Scruton joined Gabriel Hawkes in the grave. Christopher Millfield went off to terminate the careers of other spies on behalf of Walsingham.

Westfield's Men were to stay on for a few days in York. Their success at the inn brought in requests for further performances and they were to offer other delights from their repertoire. It was an immense comfort to know that their plays were once again their exclusive property. The man who had most cause to be pleased was instead subdued and withdrawn.

Nicholas Bracewell sought him out in the taproom.

'Be of good cheer, Edmund. Our troubles are over.'

'They leave much sadness in their wake.'

'We must strive to put it behind us.'

'I have done so,' said Hoode gloomily, 'but my mind is fixed on misery. I liked them both, you see, Christopher and young Gabriel, as I took him to be. I trusted them.'

'We were all taken in,' admitted Nicholas. Nobody more completely than me. I feel humbled by it all. I should have listened to Mistress Budden.'

'Did she throw light on these dark deeds?'

'She did, Edmund. That good lady warned me about Master Millfield. She told me that he was an atheist.'